The Selection Stories Collection

by Kiera Cass

  I shook where I stood. “After Kriss’s party.”

  His eyes widened. “So basically since he got here,” he said, something like sarcasm in his voice.

  “Maxon, I’m so sorry. At first I was protecting him, and then I was protecting myself. And after Marlee was caned, I was afraid to tell you the truth. I couldn’t lose you,” I pleaded.

  “Lose me? Lose me?” he asked, astonished. “You’re going home with a small fortune, a new caste, and a man who is still pursuing you! I’m the one losing here today, America!”

  The words took my breath away. “I’m going home?”

  He looked at me as if I was an idiot for asking. “How many times am I supposed to let you break my heart, America? Do you think I’d honestly marry you, make you my princess, when you’ve been lying to me for most of our relationship? I refuse to torture myself for the rest of my life. You might have noticed, I get plenty of that already.”

  I erupted into sobs. “Maxon, please. I’m sorry; it’s not what it looked like. I s-swear. I love you!”

  He sauntered up to me, his eyes dead. “Of all the lies you’ve told me, that’s the one I resent the most.”

  “It’s not—” The look in his eyes silenced me.

  “Have your maids do their best. You should go out in style.”

  He walked past me, out the doorway and out of the future I’d held in my hands only a few minutes before. I turned back to the room, holding my stomach as if the core of my body was about to crack from the pain. I went over to the bed, rolling onto my side, no longer able to stand.

  I cried, hoping to get the ache out of my body before the ceremony. How was I supposed to face that? I looked to the clock to see how much time I had . . . and saw the thick envelope Maxon had given me last night.

  I decided this was the last piece of him I would ever have, so I opened the seal, desperate.

  CHAPTER 29

  December 25, 4:30 p.m.

  Dear America,

  It’s been seven hours since you left. Twice now I’ve started to go to your room to ask how you liked your presents and then remembered you weren’t here. I’ve gotten so used to you, it’s strange that you aren’t around, drifting down the halls. I’ve nearly called a few times, but I don’t want to seem possessive. I don’t want you to feel like I’m a cage to you. I remember how you said the palace was just that the first night you came here. I think, over time, you’ve felt freer, and I’d hate to ruin that freedom. I’m going to have to distract myself until you come back.

  I decided to sit and write to you, hoping maybe it would feel like I was talking to you. It sort of does. I can imagine you sitting here, smiling at my idea, maybe shaking your head at me as if to say I’m being silly. You do that sometimes, did you know? I like that expression on you. You’re the only person who wears it in a way that doesn’t come across like you think I’m completely hopeless. You smile at my idiosyncrasies, accept that they exist, and continue to be my friend. And, in seven short hours, I’ve started to miss that.

  I wonder what you’ve done in that time. I’m betting by now you’ve flown across the country, made it to your home, and are safe. I hope you are safe. I can’t imagine what a comfort you must be to your family right now. The lovely daughter has finally returned!

  I keep trying to picture your home. I remember you telling me it was small, that you had a tree house, and that your garage was where your father and sister did all their work. Beyond that I’ve had to resort to my imagination. I imagine you curled up in a hug with your sister or kicking around a ball with your little brother. I remember that, you know? That you said he liked to play ball.

  I tried to imagine walking into your house with you. I would have liked that, to see you where you grew up. I would love to see your brother run around or be embraced by your mother. I think it would be comforting to sense the presence of people near you, floorboards creaking and doors shutting. I would have liked to sit in one part of the house and still probably be able to smell the kitchen. I’ve always imagined that real homes are full of the aromas of whatever’s being cooked. I wouldn’t do a scrap of work. Nothing having to do with armies or budgets or negotiations. I’d sit with you, maybe try to work on my photography while you played the piano. We’d be Fives together, like you said. I could join your family for dinner, talking over one another in a collection of conversations instead of whispering and waiting our turns. And maybe I’d sleep in a spare bed or on the couch. I’d sleep on the floor beside you if you’d let me.

  I think about that sometimes. Falling asleep next to you, I mean, like we did in the safe room. It was nice to hear your breaths as they came and went, something quiet and close, keeping me from feeling so alone.

  This letter has gotten foolish, and I think you know how I detest looking like a fool. But still I do. For you.

  Maxon

  December 25, 10:35 p.m.

  Dear America,

  It’s nearly bedtime, and I’m trying to relax, but I can’t. All I can think about is you. I’m terrified you’re going to get hurt. I know someone would tell me if you weren’t all right, and that has led to its own kind of paranoia. If anyone comes up to me to deliver a message, my heart stops for a moment, fearing the worst: You are gone. You’re not coming back.

  I wish you were here. I wish I could just see you.

  You are never getting these letters. It’s too humiliating.

  I want you home. I keep thinking of your smile and worrying that I’ll never see it again.

  I hope you come back to me, America.

  Merry Christmas.

  Maxon

  December 26, 10:00 a.m.

  Dear America,

  Miracle of miracles, I’ve made it through the night. When I finally woke up, I convinced myself I was worried for nothing. I vowed that I would focus on work today and not fret so much about you.

  I got through breakfast and most of a meeting before thoughts of you consumed me. I told everyone I was sick and am now hiding in my room, writing to you, hoping this will make me feel like you’re home again.

  I’m so selfish. Today you will bury your father, and all I can think of is bringing you here. Having written that out, seeing it in ink, I feel like an absolute ass. You are exactly where you need to be. I think I already said this, but I’m sure you’re such a comfort to your family.

  You know, I haven’t told this to you and I ought to have, but you’ve gotten so much stronger since I met you. I’m not arrogant enough to believe that has anything to do with me, but I think this experience has changed you. I know it’s changed me. From the very beginning you had your own brand of fearlessness, and that has been polished into something strong. Where I used to imagine you as a girl with a bag full of stones, ready to throw them at any foe who crossed her path, you have become the stone itself. You are steady and able. And I bet your family sees that in you. I should have told you that. I hope you come home soon so I can.

  Maxon

  December 26, 7:40 p.m.

  Dear America,

  I’ve been thinking of our first kiss. I suppose I should say first kisses, but what I mean is the second, the one I was actually invited to give you. Did I ever tell you how I felt that night? It wasn’t just getting my first kiss ever; it was getting to have that first kiss with you. I’ve seen so much, America, had access to the corners of our planet. But never have I come across anything so painfully beautiful as that kiss. I wish it was something I could catch with a net or place in a book. I wish it was something I could save and share with the world so I could tell the universe: this is what it’s like; this is how it feels when you fall.

  These letters are so embarrassing. I’ll have to burn them before you get home.

  Maxon

  December 27, noon

  America,

  I might as well tell you this since your maid will tell you anyway. I’ve been thinking of the little things you do. Sometimes you hum or sing when you walk around the palace. Sometimes when I
come up to your room, I hear the melodies you’ve saved up in your heart spilling out the doorway. The palace seems empty without them.

  I also miss your smell. I miss your perfume drifting off your hair when you turn to laugh at me or your scent radiating on your skin when we walk through the garden. It’s intoxicating.

  So I went to your room to spray your perfume on my handkerchief, another silly trick to make me feel like you were here. And as I was leaving your room, Mary caught me. I’m not sure what she was looking after since you’re not here; but she saw me, shrieked, and a guard came running in to see what was wrong. He had his staff gripped, and his eyes flashed threateningly. I was nearly attacked. All because I missed your smell.

  December 27, 11:00 p.m.

  My Dear America,

  I’ve never written a love letter, so forgive me if I fail now. . . .

  The simple thing would be to say that I love you. But, in truth, it’s so much more than that. I want you, America. I need you.

  I’ve held back so much from you out of fear. I’m afraid that if I show you everything at once, it will overwhelm you, and you’ll run away. I’m afraid that somewhere in the back of your heart is a love for someone else that will never die. I’m afraid that I will make a mistake again, something so huge that you retreat into that silent world of yours. No scolding from a tutor, no lashing from my father, no isolation in my youth has ever hurt me so much as you separating yourself from me.

  I keep thinking that it’s there, waiting to come back and strike me. So I’ve held on to all my options, fearing that the moment I wipe them away, you will be standing there with your arms closed, happy to be my friend but unable to be my equal, my queen, my wife.

  And for you to be my wife is all I want in the world. I love you. I was afraid to admit it for a long time, but I know it now.

  I would never rejoice in the loss of your father, the sadness you’ve felt since he passed, or the emptiness I’ve experienced since you left. But I’m so grateful that you had to go. I’m not sure how long it would have taken for me to figure this out if I hadn’t had to start trying to imagine a life without you. I know now, with absolute certainty, that is nothing I want.

  I wish I was as true an artist as you so that I could find a way to tell you what you’ve become to me. America, my love, you are sunlight falling through trees. You are laughter that breaks through sadness. You are the breeze on a too-warm day. You are clarity in the midst of confusion.

  You are not the world, but you are everything that makes the world good. Without you, my life would still exist, but that’s all it would manage to do.

  You said that to get things right one of us would have to take a leap of faith. I think I’ve discovered the canyon that must be leaped, and I hope to find you waiting for me on the other side.

  I love you, America.

  Yours forever,

  Maxon

  CHAPTER 30

  THE GREAT ROOM WAS PACKED. For once, instead of the king and queen being the focal point of the room, it was Maxon. On a slightly raised platform, Maxon, Kriss, and I sat at an ornate table. I felt as if our positioning was deceitful. I was on Maxon’s right. I always thought being on someone’s right was a good thing, an honored position. But so far he’d spent the entire time speaking to Kriss. As if I didn’t already know what was coming.

  I tried to seem happy as I looked around the room. It was packed. Gavril, of course, was in a corner, speaking into a camera, narrating the events as they happened.

  Ashley smiled and waved, and beside her Anna winked at me. I gave them a nod, still too nervous to speak. Toward the back of the room, in deceptively clean clothes, August, Georgia, and some of the other Northern rebels sat at a table by themselves. Of course Maxon would want them here to meet his new wife. Little did he know she was one of their own.

  They surveyed the room tensely, as if they feared any second a guard would recognize them and attack. The guards didn’t seem to be paying attention though. In fact, this was the first time I’d ever seen them look so poorly focused, eyes meandering around the room, several of them on edge. I’d even noticed that one or two hadn’t shaved and looked a little rough. It was a big event though. Maybe they were just rushed.

  My eyes flitted over to Queen Amberly, speaking with her sister Adele and her gaggle of children. She looked radiant. She’d been waiting for this day for so long. She would love Kriss like her own. For a moment, I was so jealous of that fact.

  I turned and scanned the faces of the Selected again, and this time my eyes landed on Celeste. I could see the clear question in her eyes: What are you so worried about? I gave her a minuscule shake of my head, letting her know that I’d lost. She sent me a thin smile and mouthed the words It’ll be okay. I nodded, and I tried to believe her. She turned away, laughing at something someone said; and I finally looked to my right, taking in the face of the guard stationed closest to our table.

  Aspen was distracted though. He was looking around the room like so many of the other men in uniform, but he seemed to be trying to think of something. It was as if he was doing a puzzle in his head. I wished he would look my way, maybe try to explain wordlessly what he was worried about, but he didn’t.

  “Trying to arrange a time to meet later?” Maxon asked, and I whipped my head back.

  “No, of course not.”

  “It’s not like it matters. Kriss’s family will be here this afternoon for a small celebration, and yours will be here to take you home. They don’t like for the last loser to be alone. She tends to get dramatic.”

  He was so cold, so distant. It was as if it wasn’t even Maxon at all.

  “You can keep that house if you want. It’s been paid for. I’d like my letters back though.”

  “I read them,” I whispered. “I loved them.”

  He huffed as if it was a joke. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Please don’t do this. Please. I love you.” My face was crumpling.

  “Don’t. You. Dare,” Maxon ordered through gritted teeth. “You put on a smile, and you wear it to the last second.”

  I blinked away the tears and gave a weak smile.

  “That’ll do. Don’t let that slip until you leave the room, do you understand?” I nodded. He looked into my eyes. “I’ll be glad when you’re gone.”

  After he spat out those last words, his smile returned and he faced Kriss again. I stared into my lap a minute, slowing my breathing and putting on a brave face.

  When I brought my eyes up again, I didn’t dare to look directly at anyone. I didn’t think I could honor Maxon’s last wish if I did. Instead, I focused on the walls of the room. It was because of that I noticed when most of the guards stepped away from them at some signal I didn’t see. Pieces of red fabric were pulled out of their pockets and tied across their foreheads.

  I watched in confusion as a red-marked guard walked up behind Celeste and put a bullet squarely through the back of her head.

  The screaming and gunfire exploded at once. Guttural shouts of pain filled the room, adding to the cacophony of chairs screeching, bodies hitting walls, and the stampede of people trying to escape as fast as they could in their heels and suits. The men shouted as they fired, making the whole thing far more terrifying. I watched, stunned, seeing death more times in a handful of seconds than ought to be possible. I looked for the king and queen, but they were gone. I was gripped with fear, unsure if they’d escaped or been captured. I looked for Adele, for her children. I couldn’t see them anywhere, and that was even worse than losing sight of the king and queen.

  Beside me, Maxon was trying to calm Kriss. “Get on the floor,” he told her. “We’re going to be fine.”

  I looked to my right for Aspen and was in awe for a moment. He was on one knee, taking aim, firing deliberately into the crowd. He must have been very sure of his target to do that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of red. Suddenly a rebel guard was standing in front of us. As I thoug
ht the words rebel guard, it all clicked into place. Anne had told me this had happened once before, when the rebels had gotten the guards’ uniforms and had sneaked into the palace. But how?

  As Kriss let out another cry, I realized that the guards who were sent to our houses hadn’t abandoned their posts at all. They were dead and buried, their clothes stolen and standing in front of us.

  Not that this information did me any good now.

  I knew that I should run, that Maxon and Kriss should run if they were going to make it. But I was frozen as the menacing figure raised his gun and directed it at Maxon. I looked up at Maxon, and he looked to me. I wished I had time to speak. I turned away, back to the man.

  A look of amusement crossed his face. As if he suspected this would be much more entertaining for himself and much more painful for Maxon, he slid his gun ever so slightly to his left and aimed it at me.

  I didn’t even think to scream. I couldn’t move at all, but I saw the blur of Maxon’s suit coat as he leaped toward me.

  I fell to the ground, but not in the direction I thought I would. Maxon missed me, flying across in front of me. When I hit the floor, I looked up to see Aspen. He’d sprinted to the table and pushed over my chair, crashing on top of me.

  “I got him!” someone shouted. “Find the king!”

  I heard several shouts of delight, pleased with the declaration. And screaming. So much screaming. As I came out of my stupor, the sounds crashed into my ears again. Other chairs and bodies clamored to the floor. Guards yelled out orders. Shots were fired, and the sickening pops pierced my ears. It was pure pandemonium.

  “Are you hurt?” Aspen demanded over the commotion.

  I think I shook my head.

  “Don’t move.”

  I watched as he stood, widened his stance, and aimed. He fired several times, eyes focused and body at ease. By the angle of his shots, it looked like more rebels were trying to get close to us. Thanks to Aspen, they failed.